


Dr. Twinsting or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Scene

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 17:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: In which the bomb is isobutyl nitrite, the power-hungry general is Charles Leclerc, and Lando Norris is his unassuming victim.





	Dr. Twinsting or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Scene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mondaycore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/gifts).

> Warning for sex while under the influence of questionably legal substances.

At nine-something, Charles knocks on his door, bats his lashes like he’s got dust in his eye, and asks if Lando wants to _hang out_, which doesn’t make any sense, considering Lando is openly terrified of Charles’ monotonous speeches and bizarre obstinacy behind the wheel. Spending time together isn’t a thing they do. 

They end up sitting cross-legged in Charles’ hotel room. Every light is off, the curtains are drawn, and Charles is droning on about how boring the stewards are. Half of his complaints seem directed at the FIA’s unscheduled drug tests, and Lando doesn’t understand why he’s _this_ bothered by piss-in-a-cup time. Nobody should be mad about that unless they—

As if hearing Lando’s thoughts, Charles pulls out a tacky golden vial and says, “I have a thing for you to try.”

“Is that legal?” Lando asks, though he already knows damn well it can’t be. 

In lieu of an answer, Charles rolls his eyes and gives him the bottle. It’s supposedly a tape cleaner, and Lando’s kind of a daddy’s boy but he isn’t _daft_, all right, he knows this is a type of LSD blunt or whatever people with criminal records pump into their bloodstreams. Upon further inspection, he recognises exactly zero of the chemicals listed on the back. “What is this?”

“I thought you were English,” Charles says.

_Very helpful, thank you_. “Why does that matter?”

“They use this quite a lot in England,” Charles explains, taking back the flask, his fingers brushing against Lando’s. Purposeful or not, it’s as erotic as a horny 19-year-old can handle. “It is good to relax.” 

“I don’t need to relax. I’m fine the way I am,” Lando says, more petulant than genuinely offended. “Drugs aren’t good for you.”

Much to Lando’s chagrin, Charles honest-to-God cackles, a mix of pity and mockery. “If this was bad, I wouldn’t be here. Why would I sabotage me _and_ you like that?”

Lando purses his lips and goes over his schedule. If he’s fit to drive in two days, he should be able to do as he pleases. The real question is whether he wants to do drugs with Ferrari prodigy Charles Leclerc, a conundrum he hadn’t considered before in his entire life. 

Turns out he really, really wants to do that. His dad is going to find out and lecture him about the dangers of illicit substances, but who cares?

“Eh, fine, let’s do it,” he says, trying and failing to sound confident. 

In the end, Charles always gets what he’s after, doesn’t he, and he commands Lando like a general might his army: confident, sly, Machiavellian. “Go to the bed,” he orders.

While Lando rushes to obey, Charles stands up and slowly unfastens the toggles of his coat, shrugging it off to reveal a sheer top. He basks in Lando’s obvious astonishment, grinning as he climbs on to the mattress, his knees on either side of Lando’s hips. 

“Hi,” Lando says dumbly, his brain scrambling to come up with the appropriate words. “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Charles says. Smirking ravenously, he leans in to press their mouths together, hotter than anything Lando’s ever felt, his tongue so sinful it could make any man doubt his sexuality. Unlike most people, Charles doesn’t shy away from intimacy with his one-night stands; a failure to kiss is a failure to cope, and the closeness is half of the appeal for him. 

With Lando supine underneath him, it’s easier for Charles to take this wherever he wants it to go, and he moves back slightly, level with the tent in Lando’s oversized sweatpants. “Have you had a girlfriend before?” he asks, untying the drawstring.

“Yes,” Lando chokes out.

“Did she do this?” Charles says, tugging Lando’s boxers and trousers down his thighs. “Did she use her mouth on you?”

Lando doesn’t get a chance to answer; once he thinks he knows what to say, Charles is already bowing to wrap his lips around Lando’s cock, slick and hot and so, so dirty. He grabs a handful of Charles’ hair, not confident enough to push him, holding on for dear life lest he lose all control of his body, eyes fixed on the movement of Charles’ head, a steady up-and-down of sticky saliva and hollowed cheeks.

Eventually, Lando begs, “I’m close, please,” and that’s Charles’ cue to pull off, a trail of spit like a poet’s gun on his lower lip.

Ignoring Lando’s confusion, he hooks his thumbs into his own pants and undresses, tossing his briefs on to the floor. However pointlessly, he also gets rid of the see-through shirt, and he gives Lando a cocky smile, prideful and lecherous.

Now he’s naked, nothing but an animal, and he takes his time to savour the amazed glint shining in Lando’s eyes as Charles straddles his thighs and sinks on to his dick, face contorted in saccharine pleasure, finally filled up to the brim the way he needs it.

“Holy crap,” Lando whines, overwhelmed by how impossibly tight Charles is.

“Just wait a little bit, it gets a lot better,” Charles says, leaning sideways to retrieve the damned VHS cleaner. He unscrews its cap, tempted by the smell, but hands it to Lando instead. “Come on, breathe it in.”

The things Lando is allowed to do aren’t nearly as good—possibility is flavourless, impossibility is an exhilarating wine, floral and heady on his tongue—so he raises the bottle to his nose and takes a hit. It’s fruity, almost _too_ pungent, and it makes him flinch.

Then it hits, and God, this must be the closest thing to a true aphrodisiac in the world. Charles clearly notices the effect it has on him, and he laughs, putting his hands on Lando’s chest and pushing himself up to ride him in earnest. He bounces on Lando’s cock like a seasoned porn actress, putting on a show with his loud moans, sweet, obscene, beguiling. Sweat drips from his forehead, an uncharacteristically disheveled look that Lando wants to commit to memory forever.

Charles takes the vial and inhales, deeper than Lando had the courage to, and an action so debasing has no right to look this beautiful. He wastes no time in getting the two of them to come, whispering filthy words into Lando’s ear, a stream of Italian and French betraying the enjoyment behind his aloof façade; he may pretend to be above the carnality of sex, but the truth is he loves this, loves the thrill of pinning another driver to a hotel bed and having his way with them.

Afterwards, Charles wipes his nose and looks down at Lando like a predator looming over the remains of his prey, deliriously happy with himself for finally catching the target he’s been wanting for so long. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to both _Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb_ and a certain brand of technically-not-illegal substances. (It's Double Scorpio.)
> 
> “Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine and a fail to kiss is a fail to cope,” Fiona Apple, _Paper Bag_.
> 
> “Skip like a prophet, spit like a poet’s gun, but say, how long can this go on?” The Smashing Pumpkins, _Silvery Sometimes (Ghosts)_.
> 
> “Now I’m naked, nothing but an animal, but can you fake it for just one more show?” The Smashing Pumpkins, _Bullet with Butterfly Wings_.
> 
> “Impossibility, like wine, exhilarates the man who tastes it; possibility is flavorless.” Emily Dickinson, _Impossibility, like Wine (838)_.
> 
> “Inhalable nitrites may be the nearest thing to a true aphrodisiac.” Thomas P. Lowry, M.D.
> 
> Don’t do drugs, kids, follow singlemalter on Tumblr instead.


End file.
